


An Unexpected Encounter

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Series: Refraction [7]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:19:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sunny day, the Harley, caffeine, and sugar are all that Bond and Q had on the agenda for the day - until an unexpected encounter with someone from Q's past changes their plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Encounter

In a rare moment of perfect planetary alignment, the day promised to be an exceptional one. Both Bond and Q had the day off. Bond’s last mission had gone smoothly, leaving no residual anxiety to deal with. Q’s work on a new armoury project yesterday had blown up spectacularly, rattling most of subterranean Q Branch. The techs had all cheered with relentless enthusiasm as Q and his two assistants stumbled out of the lab, covered in soot, clothing still aflame in some places, coughing and grinning. (Bond, who had been discussing a prototype helicopter with one of the aeronautical engineers, had simply grumbled “And they tell me I can’t bloody smoke in the stairwells anymore.”) They’d gone home a few hours early, and Q’s latent excitement at the project led to a fantastic evening spent entirely in bed.

Q suspected this was why when, the next morning, he’d suggested they go to a cafe for the sort of sugary coffee and pastries Bond normally abhorred, Bond had agreed. It was either that or he took pity on Q’s singed eyebrows and hair gone wonky from too much heat exposure and caved in the same way one might when a scruffy puppy comes up to get his ears scratched.

“I’m afraid it’s a temporary loss, Bond,” Q said cheerfully as he emerged from the shower, towel draped around his hips, running his hand through his hair in an effort to tame it. “Are you sure you don’t mind going out in public with me? Once this dries, I’m still going to look a bit... funny.” He grinned and on the edge of the bed where he had a perfect view of the bathroom.

“Less chance I’ll have to shoot someone for looking at you inappropriately,” Bond said, favouring Q with a very inappropriate look of his own. He was less than half-dressed, wearing nothing but blue jeans designed to stop Q’s higher thought processes, and lounged against the counter like a damned model in a magazine. “Or I could make you a proper coffee with espresso and none of that artificial crap you’re so addicted to, and you wouldn’t even need to put on trousers.”

Q smiled, took one last stab at smoothing his hopeless hair, and leaned in for an absolutely filthy kiss, proud of how it soon had Bond gripping his waist as if to prevent him from going anywhere. “Later. We’ll have a no-trousers evening when we get back, I promise. But the sun is out, and given that I don’t actually go to any of the exotic bright places you’re able to rely on for giving you some colour, you should let me absorb some of the vitamin D while I can.”

Bond growled, but in a good-natured way, and finally let go of Q. He sent Q out of the bathroom with a sharp slap on the arse, saying, “You have thirty seconds to get dressed or you forfeit your terrible coffee.”

Q laughed a little madly and dove with false haste towards his side of the wardrobe to dig for jeans and the Lostprophets T-shirt from the last gig they’d attended. “Do you think it will be worth Saturday morning traffic to take the Harley out? We can go to the cafe first, then take it out of town to test out the new rocket launcher I installed.” He grinned at the thought. “I seem to be in the mood for blowing things up lately.” He toed at his work boots, waiting for Bond to think it over.

Bond’s voice went low and intense. “I think you’re making up excuses to get me in those gloves, Quartermaster,” he accused. When Q looked back, he saw Bond blocking the wardrobe doorway as though determined to bar his escape.

Q turned back with a wicked grin, taking in Bond’s unfairly gorgeous bare chest, his tight jeans, his bare feet. “As if I _need_ an excuse.” He gave Bond a shove backwards (which he very much selfishly permitted) and tackled him to the bed.

 

~~~

 

Q hated the helmet for getting in the way of being able to bury his head in between Bond’s leather-jacketed shoulders as the Harley rumbled underneath them on the way to the cafe. It wasn’t as if they were actually going fast enough in the snarl of London traffic for a tumble off the bike to cause him any significant damage. He wondered briefly if Bond would let him get away with a slow ride down a country highway with no helmet, just so he could have the experience of being fully wrapped around Bond, nose in the leather, hands gripping Bond’s own leather-gloved ones. That thought, of course, brought him back to the memory of their first ride and the resulting... _explorations_ in the dyno lab later, and Q felt his face heat up as he chuckled, gripping Bond tighter as they finally pulled into the cafe’s carpark.

Bond took full advantage of an open space, parking the Harley dead centre. He braced one foot on the pavement, dropped the kickstand, and pulled off his helmet. Q quickly did the same, and allowed Bond to reach back to his mussed hair and pull him down for a quick kiss.

If Q had learned anything about Bond it was that the man wasn’t shy about public displays in the least. Not even close.

Q dismounted first and leaned over to secure his helmet to the locking point, only to end up with Bond off the bike and standing behind Q, pressed against his arse. Trapped, Q twisted and glared over his shoulder into Bond’s sunglasses, only to be met with an innocent smile.

Bond slid a hand up Q’s spine, pressing hard enough to be felt through his jacket. He tightened his fingers around the nape of Q’s neck, saying, “I need to lock this down.” Innocent as an angel, Bond held up the helmet in his other hand.

Q, however, was still feeling exceptionally playful and — dare he say it? — joyful about life in general today. He resisted the urge to be snarky with the distraction of grinding backwards against Bond for a brief moment. He felt like he should probably be embarrassed, but Bond’s muttered, “Fuck,” interrupted any such modest thoughts. He could still catch Bond by surprise.

Straightening with a smirk, Q watched as Bond secured his helmet and idly said, “I think I’m going to go for a triple today, with an extra shot of mocha. And something with icing.” He pressed a quick kiss to Bond’s gloved hand, not letting go when he let it drop. “An obscene amount of icing.”

Bond let himself be led to the cafe, where Q took one of the outdoor tables. Bond pulled out one of the chairs and hesitated. “You’re going to be ten minutes staring at the damned pastry display, aren’t you?”

“That was a fluke, which you brought entirely on yourself by being so damn _distracting_ the last time we were here,” Q huffed with false indignation. “Don’t whisper your evaluation of the benefits of confectioners sugar versus Holland crème in my ear, and I won’t take so long.”

Smirking, Bond claimed the metal bistro chair as if it were a throne. He braced one foot on the third chair at their table and turned his head up to face Q. Despite the sunglasses, Q felt his gaze taking a slow path up Q’s body. “Double espresso, and none of that rubbish in it. And get a cinnamon roll so I can lick the bits off your fingers,” he added casually.

Q let a little shiver of anticipatory delight rush down his spine as he turned to head to the counter. “I knew this was a good idea,” he chuckled as he made his way through the chatty crowd.

Apparently Q wasn’t the only one having a good day. Most of the customers were holding cheerful conversations punctuated with bright smiles, laughing and sipping and nibbling in the unexpected and welcome sunshine. As he waited, he let his mind wander to the Harley, and what kind of reaction he’d get from Bond when he showed off the new rocket launcher. It was small and Q had special ordered the same decorative metals for its design so that it blended in seamlessly with the bike’s overall aesthetic. Style didn’t negate power, however; it packed one hell of a punch. Q’s grin at the thought of felling a tree in the country with one well-aimed strike made the barista pause warily when Q came up to the counter.

“What can I get for you?” she asked cautiously, which, of course, caused Q to grin even wider.

Q placed his order quickly and efficiently, carrying through on his promise not to linger at the bakery display. He was just reaching out to take his card back when a familiar voice next to him chuckled. “Well, I thought I recognised that face.”

Q stepped aside from the line towards the order pickup, turning to look at the worn and greying face of a man he hadn’t seen in nearly fifteen years. “Dr Baker?”

“Hello, Jack.”

Q could feel Bond’s eyes on him through the plate glass window. It wasn’t that Bond was jealous — he was just overprotective, security-conscious, and paranoid that he was out in the open air with the head of Q Branch at MI6. Every time they left the flat, Bond was aware that any number of England’s enemies would love to shoot Bond and steal Q away for interrogation in order to get at the secrets locked in his head.

At the moment, however, he couldn’t think of a way to signal “No worries” without pretending false pleasure at seeing Dr Baker. He didn’t particularly dislike Baker — in fact, he was one of the few of Q’s foster parents he _didn’t_ actively hate — but the situation had caught him completely off guard. “Still living in London?” he managed with a smile.

“Same practise. And you?”

“I live in Knightsbridge,” he said with no small sense of satisfaction, watching Baker’s eyes widen at the mention of the upscale neighbourhood. “With my partner, James.”

Baker nodded. Q had never been shy about his sexuality; he fought a blush at the thought of some of the less subtle methods he’d used to ensure no one would ever expect him to bring a girl to a school dance.

The barista at the order window called out, “Q?” and as he walked over to pick it up, he was surprised to find Baker followed him. He turned a bit uncomfortably, watching with curiosity.

“Can I meet him?” Baker asked.

Q tried valiantly to suppress a frown; the notion seemed both ridiculous and intriguing. On one hand, he didn’t want his old life and his new life to stand up and shake hands — it seemed like the kind of paradox that might cause a crack in the fabric of space/time to spontaneously appear. On the other hand, a small, still-young part of him wanted to show off to Baker, who had actually invested a year’s worth of time and effort into trying to stave off Q’s self-destruction before giving up and sending him back into the system. He realised that he desperately wanted to prove that he’d turned out all right.

“Sure,” he simply said, and turned — tray of food and drinks in hand — and led him out to the table.

Bond sat up just enough to take his foot down from the third chair. He’d had his arms lazily crossed over his chest. Now, he let them fall to the arms of the chair. His leather jacket was open, Q noted, though he’d had it zipped closed earlier, and Q knew there was a very illegal handgun in a concealed holster. He estimated Bond’s odds at talking his way out of an arrest at about sixty percent — seventy-five if the arresting officer was female or gay.

He gave Bond a pointed shake of his head as he set the tray down, with a quick glance in the direction of the gun to make his point. Then he straightened and, with a bright but false smile, prepared for the encounter.

“Doctor Baker, this is my partner, James Bond,” he said, stepping to the right. “James, this is Doctor William Baker. He was a foster parent of mine when I was...” he wracked his brain, trying to remember a date. Ah, the year he was arrested for stealing his first car. “Twelve.” He smiled at Baker, this time with some genuine affection. “Dr Baker bought me my first laptop.”

Smoothly, Bond rose, left thumb applying just enough pressure to the hem of his jacket to keep the front panel from gaping open. He extended his right hand — a distracting move meant to keep anyone from glimpsing his holster, he’d once told Q — and shook Baker’s hand, saying, “Then I have to thank you for that, Doctor. I can’t even do online banking without his help.” The lie flowed effortlessly — and Q noticed Bond _hadn’t_ mentioned his name, either ‘Q’ or ‘Jack’.

Q waved his hand to the third chair in an invitation for Baker to sit, who took it gratefully, looking for all the world like an old man who very soon would be needing a cane to keep himself upright. It made Q frown; he’d remembered Baker as a kind but stern man — not someone to be feared, but certainly someone who could be reckoned with. He handed Bond his coffee and roll.

“Oh, I didn’t actually teach Jack how to use it,” Baker said with a smile, watching as Q set his own coffee and donut down. “He had a knack for the infernal things; I was just trying to keep him challenged.”

“Well, it worked,” Q said, shaking the tray free of crumbs. “I think that year was the first I’d ever designed my own operating system, just to get the laptop to work more efficiently.

Bond grinned. “Was he so easily distracted by computers before?”

Baker chuckled as Q flushed. “Jack was always easily distracted by nearly anything. Computers just happened to be the trinkets that outshone the rest. I remember once, when Jack had the day off school and I hadn’t had time to arrange for someone to keep an eye on him. I thought for certain he was going to burn my office down by spending too much time mixing chemicals just to see what would happen, so I let him have free rein of the secretary's desktop computer. She quit three days later because of his ‘modifications’ but I considered it a win.”

“It’s not my fault she didn’t like the upgrades. They made her system run much more smoothly,” Q said with a smirk.

“Which sums up his entire career,” Bond said, giving Q a proud grin. “He’s in IT now at our company.” Q smiled at Bond gratefully.

“Oh?” Baker asked with interest, straightening. “If I had to guess by the current state of his hair and eyebrows, I’d have to guess he still gets into trouble by crafting things that explode,” he said with a chuckle.

“It’s been known to happen,” Bond admitted. “Fortunately, he’s allowed to set his department’s dress code to include artistic singeing.”

“ _His_ department?” Baker grinned. “With IT _and_ chemical explosions? I’m impressed. Sounds like you managed to find the perfect job. What exactly do you do?”

“We’re in international sales,” Bond interjected, picking up his espresso. “The explosions are a hobby of his, I’m afraid, but that’s what I get for turning him loose on our Harley.” He gestured to the motorcycle.

“Ah. I wondered about the uh...” Baker waved at Bond’s admittedly provocative outfit, and Q grinned.

“I’m undercover,” Bond answered, grinning like a shark.

Q laughed and wrapped his fingers around Bond’s. “Work can be very stressful, so we like to enjoy our downtime by being as casual as humanly possible.”

“Well, I have to say I’m impressed,” Baker said, leaning back into his chair. “You always were very clever, but never seemed to have any ambition. It always worried me.”

Bond sipped his espresso, his smile never wavering. “Our company has a very strong incentive programme — and excellent benefits.”

“Not the least of which is access to the kinds of tools and supplies I need to blow things up,” Q admitted, grinning.

“So you went to college then, to be an engineer? Or computer scientist?” Baker asked.

“No,” Q admitted with a shrug. “I’ve passed every intelligence and skills test they’ve thrown at me, so it really seemed fairly redundant.”

Baker nodded, though he didn’t smile. “What about that friend of yours that was always hanging about? With the ginger hair. Several years older than you.”

“Matt French?” Q desperately searched for a way to respond. Beside him, Bond went tense, though Q doubted Baker even noticed. Q knew Bond too well, though, and he could feel the sudden crackle of dangerous energy radiating from him like sparks from a shorted wire.

“That’s the one. Never like him much, sadistic little bastard. I don’t know he ever managed to get out of stealing my car and running it into that off license.” Baker shook his head but Q couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Matt had felt like Baker was a threat to his little empire, trying to tempt Q out with computers and time spent measuring chemical reactions with his at-home chemistry set. He had been right, of course, but he underestimated Q’s own obstinate hatred of adult authority figures.

“I’m sorry about that,” Q said, though he couldn’t quite quash his smile. “He did that on purpose just to make you angry. But he’s gone now. Died a few years later.”

“Oh.” Baker didn’t sound remorseful. “Sorry to hear it.”

At that, Q decided it was long past time to end the conversation. The day had started out perfectly, and was going to end perfectly, even if he had to be exceptionally rude to the man who’d bought him his first laptop. “Well,” he said standing, gathering his coffee and pastry. “It has been great to run into you, but I think we’d best be going.” He briefly wondered if the bike had any cup holders and decided not to risk it. He pitched his coffee and pastry in the bin.

Baker looked up with surprise, then slowly stood and extended his hand. “It’s been great to run into you, Jack. I’ve always wondered... I’m still at the same place. Come and see me sometime, yeah?”

Q shook his hand and smiled. “Sure thing, Dr Baker. Enjoy your weekend.”

“Good to meet you,” Bond said, rising to shake Baker’s hand as well. He finished his espresso, leaving only the dregs, but slid the sticky cinnamon roll onto a paper napkin, rather than binning it.

As Baker walked off, Q took the cinnamon roll and gave Bond a grin. He pushed aside his memories of Matt and instead thought about this rare, perfect day off. By the time they’d walked back to the Harley, Q was relaxed once more.

Before Q could get his helmet, Bond pulled him close enough to endanger the cinnamon roll and their jackets. But instead of kissing him, Bond put his lips to Q’s ear and asked in a cold, business-like whisper, “Do I need to eliminate him?”

The morning’s giddiness returned to Q in a quick rush, and he giggled madly. “Such a romantic. No, Baker’s fairly harmless. Well, that’s not exactly true. He dealt Matt some kicks to the arse if I remember correctly. Now if we had run into the Johnsons, the day would have turned out very differently,” he said with a smirk. To prevent any objections, he unwrapped the cinnamon roll, dragged his fingers through the icing, and balanced the pastry on the Harley’s seat. Then he touched his icing-covered fingertips to Bond’s lips, keeping him silent. “Ready to go?”

Without a care in the world for the fact that they were in the bright sunshine in a very busy carpark outside an equally busy cafe, Bond licked at the icing before sucking both fingers into his mouth. His hands clenched around Q’s hips, trapping him, and because Bond did nothing by half-measures, he worked his tongue against Q’s fingers, taking the tips all the way to the back of his mouth. Even through the sunglasses, Q could feel ice blue eyes staring at him, marking every little reaction.

Q shuddered and wrapped his free arm around Bond’s shoulders, holding him close enough to be able to push his hips forward without making it too obvious. Then he pulled his hand free from Bond’s mouth and slid it under Bond’s t-shirt to rest on his abdomen. “And here I am, trying to make a good impression — trying to look like the sort of responsible person who _doesn’t_ get arrested in public anymore,” he leaned forward to whisper in Bond’s ear before nipping at the earlobe.

“Get me a pair of handcuffs, and we’ll change that, too,” Bond promised, voice dropping low and quiet at the bite.

“Hmmm...” Q turned his head to bury his face in Bond’s neck. “Too many real-life experiences to turn that into a kink, I think. Maybe at home; not in public.” Then Q shifted his arms to wrap Bond in a simple, undemanding hug — one that Bond returned with an affection Q would never have imagined before they’d started their mad, wonderful relationship. He clung to Bond for several long moments, letting his mind sort Baker back into the “Jack” part of his brain and removing the last threads of the encounter from his life as “Q”. He closed his eyes, using Bond’s solid presence to help him find his centre again.

Bond let him cling, breath warm on Q’s neck. His hands slipped up under Q’s jacket and T-shirt to touch bare skin. “I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you,” he said quietly, and Q thought about Bond’s open leather jacket and the gun hidden against the left front panel.

Q sighed contentedly, letting the last of the tension bleed from his frame. He could feel the hidden sentiment behind the words, and it helped him to re-establish himself as the Quartermaster, head of Q Branch, bringer of chaos and destruction, worthy partner of the avenging angel that was James Bond. But first, Jack had to be shoved back down in his box. “It’s fine. Sorry, I’ll let go in a —”

“Shut up,” Bond interrupted gruffly, holding him tighter. “ _Nothing will happen to you_. Not as long as I’m here. We have enemies everywhere, Q, but as long as I’m here...” He shook his head.

Q had a brief, mad thought of running into a different foster parent — one of the less kind ones. He envisioned giving Bond a look of panic, or texting him, or giving him some other secret “rescue me” signal. He imagined Bond jumping over the cafe tables, shooting his way through the cafe to get to Q, raining his own brand of destruction down on the heads of the unfortunate offenders. Perhaps finding a grenade in a secret pocket for Q to throw back on their mad dash to escape the destruction. Q giggled at the absurd, if somewhat gratifying, fantasy. “Thanks. Daylight’s burning and I have things to explode. Though we may have to stop for tea or coffee on the way — I stupidly forgot to drink mine.” He pulled back with a grin.

“That’s fine,” Bond said casually as he picked up the cinnamon roll. He took his seat on the bike and turned to watch Q unlock the helmets. “Every minute we waste is one more minute you’ll have to make up to me.” He smirked back at Q and ripped off one end of the coiled dessert, licking at it before he bit it in half. He held the other half up to Q’s lips.

Q bit and chewed thoughtfully as he passed one helmet to Bond. Holding his own, he climbed up into his seat, taking advantage of being unhelmeted to rest his head between Bond’s shoulderblades. “It’s still supposed to be sunny tomorrow, right?”

“With as much certainty as the weather ever grants in London, yes. At least a ten percent chance. Maybe even as high as twelve.”

Q chuckled. “In the face of such favourable odds, I think we ought to go home now instead, and test the launchers tomorrow. I’ll even let you watch Hitchcock with the sound off if you let me bring the TV in the bedroom.”

“Bring the cinnamon roll and the handcuffs, and I agree,” Bond said. “Otherwise, I’ll have to find some other way to entertain myself.”

“Already losing faith in my ability to entertain you? That’s not a good sign,” Q chuckled, strapping the helmet on. He wrapped his arms around Bond’s waist.

Bond moved the cinnamon roll to Q’s hand and reached up to his helmet to turn on the comm system Q had installed. It was a prototype design currently slated for field testing, so neither of them felt at all guilty about using government resources. “If it rains — unlikely as that is in London,” Bond said as he started the engine, “we could always go to the office. We haven’t spent nearly enough time on the shooting range lately.”

“And that, right there, is why you’re the best Double O to walk MI6’s halls: your remarkable ability to come up with exemplary plan B’s.” Q still hated shooting, but was developing a certain attachment to the range itself thanks in no small part to Bond’s particular brand of shooting instruction — or, at least, the one he offered Q. “You’ve got a deal.”


End file.
